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Volcrian's Hunt Preview

For all of those wonderful readers who are waiting for Volcrian's Hunt to be released (Sept. 30th, 2013), here's an excerpt in the meantime. This book has been amazing to write. I finally get the chance to delve into Volcrian's character, explore the mysteries of the Shade, open up Crash's heart (just a teensy bit) and give Sora some balls... in a feminine way. Hehe.
Below I've posted the first two chapters. Please keep in mind that I am still editing the manuscript and the chapters might change by the publication date. But for now--enjoy!

Chapter 1

Volcrian stood outside the shop
and gazed at the faded blue sign. A mixture of fish oil and salt
water mingled in his nose; it was a scent that brought back painfully
clear memories.

It seemed like only yesterday, he and
his brother had stood before the very same shop. They had been mere
children then, sixteen of age with the world at their feet. The year
before, their father had died of a chronic illness, leaving them
orphaned. The two brothers had grown unimaginably close, relying on
each other to survive.

But his brother had been dead now
for three years. It haunted him like a sickness, plagued his
thoughts, stole his sleep. He couldn't forget his brother's face—nor
that of the killer.

He flexed his left hand, a
crippled mess of twisted fingers and curling tendons, ruined the day
Etienne had died.

That's
why I'm here, is it not?
he thought with a small smile. Yes, so many years ago, he and his
brother had ran across a struggling sailor who was trying to sell
fish. The sailor had begged them for money, for any sort of help.
Etienne had worked a simple spell, a mixture of blood and fish eggs.
He had anointed each barrel of fish, then the threshold of the door,
the frames of the windows. The customers would crave the man's stock,
feeling rejuvenated after eating it.

They had done the job in return
for a favor. A favor that Volcrian had not yet collected.

The population of the docks passed
by him quickly, hunched against the low clouds and steep wind. The
air was heavy with moisture though it had yet to rain. Behind him,
miles upon miles of moored ships stretched across the shoreline,
passenger vessels to fishing boats to giant freighters. Delbar was a
bustling city, full of eager merchants and cunning thieves. Yet no
one approached the door.

Volcrian had to wonder at that.
Blood magic had a price. There was a balance to it—one couldn't
just take and take. Eventually, one would have to give back. Usually
the mage suffered the consequences, taking ill for days, drawing too
much blood to recover, his life force drained.

But Etienne had been young, their
magic fierce and unfettered. Volcrian eyed the sign dubiously. Who
knew what waited beyond the storefront.

“Are
we going to stand out here all day?” came a voice to his left. A
woman's voice, though it was slightly slurred, as though her lips
were numb. “I may be dead, but I'm still freezing.”

The Priestess rolled her eyes.
They slid too far back into her head, almost full white. It took her
a moment to refocus them, the eyeballs spinning lazily about, clouded
by death.

Volcrian watched in fascination.
She had taken on a kind of beauty these past weeks, since he had
killed her on the steps of the Temple of the West Wind. Her skin had
turned gray and ashen, her lips swollen and bloated, a dark purple.
Her hair had turned white and was beginning to thin. She had a
perfectly smooth skull.

She was bundled in a thick brown
cloak several sizes too big, the hood shoved down over her head. His
own silver hair and pointed ears drew enough looks. He didn't need a
walking corpse in tow.

With a shrug, Volcrian dismissed
his thoughts and reached for the old, splintery door. It creaked as
he opened it, protesting the movement.

Inside, the store was small,
cramped, full of the overpowering stench of rotten fish. Something
else lingered in the air, tainting the walls, sickly sweet. The old,
old spice of magic. Volcrian's nose picked it up immediately,
although he knew no human could detect the smell.

“Lovely,”
the dead priestess muttered, her eyes wandering haphazardly around
the room.

“Almost
as lovely as you, my dear,” Volcrian murmured back.

Something shifted in the gloom of the
shop, hidden amongst the crates and barrels of fish. His eyes
adjusted to the light, then landed on a stooped figure in the corner.

"Malcolm?" he said into the
darkness, and the figure flinched as though struck. Volcrian took a
step forward, peering into the shadows, ears twitching. “It is
Malcolm, isn't it?

There was a croaky laugh from the
depths of the room. A figure scuttled from between two of the boxes,
low and stooped. It paused, then a voice muttered, "A Wolfy. How
I've wanted to see your kind again.”

Volcrian grimaced at the slimy
voice. It spoke with some amount of wonder. Seeing a Wolfy was rare
indeed. It was sad to think that humans, the weakest of the races,
were now in control. The other races had all but perished—including
his own.

That odd croak answered him from
the fish crates. “Oh, how could I forget,” the voice grumbled.

The mage shuddered despite himself.
The voice that spoke was not natural. The vocal chords were warped,
twisted, struggling to pronounce. He glanced around the room again,
sensing the tainted magic. Something had gone wrong with the spell.
Not entirely surprising.

"I've been waiting for you
for the past ten years," the voice gnarred. “Etienne, isn't
it?

Volcrian straightened. Etienne's name
was far too pure to be tainted by that voice. He was fast growing
impatient with this store keeper. He strode deeper into the room,
shrugging through the tendrils of magic as though they were cobwebs.

"Etienne is dead,” he said,
calm despite the anger in his gaze. “I am Volcrian.”

“Ah,
yes. The younger.” The shadowy figure spit on the floor before
Volcrian's feet, a gob of yellow phlegm that looked toxic. For a
moment, the mage turned livid. The atmosphere of the room, so
drenched with magic, began to shift.

“Show
yourself,” Volcrian called. The magic squirmed, contracting. It had
been years, but the spell still responded to his presence. Its power
was still alive.

The store keeper had no choice.
Abruptly, Malcolm stepped from between the boxes, pausing in the hazy
light from a window.

Volcrian backed up in alarm. He
blinked. His lips twisted in disgust.

Before him stood something that might
have been a man. Now it seemed more of a toad. Hunched double, his
skin was wrinkly and loose, clinging to the bone like a wet curtain.
His ears were large and dangling, his hair all but gone, and his
eyes... large, blind disks in a ruined face.

The man was aging almost three
times as fast, his life drained by the bloodspell.

Volcrian
recognized the side effects of amateur magic. He and Etienne had
caused much damage when they were younger, before studying their
great-grandfather's journal. He wrinkled his delicate nose even more.

"What
do you want, Wolfy?" the voice bit out. "Name it and leave,
so I'll never have to look at you again. You've ruined me!"

“Gladly,” Volcrian muttered, and
shared a sideways glance with the priestess. For all of her swollen,
blue-tinted skin, she still held a semblance of beauty, something
ethereal, vaguely human. As though the spirit could still be glimpsed
inside.

This man was like a slimy animal
dragged from the ocean.

“I
am looking for a group of travelers,” Volcrian murmured. “An
assassin, a Wolfy mercenary and a girl. Have you heard any news on
the docks? Anything out of the ordinary?”

The man muttered to himself in
thought, croaking and warbling. “A gang of Dracians stole a large
seafaring vessel about two weeks ago,” he said. “Word had it that
a Wolfy was with them. A big guy, almost seven feet tall.”

Volcrian nodded. He had noted a
large population of Dracians in the city. Another one of the magical
races, living side-by-side with the oblivious humans. A giant Wolfy
was exactly what he was looking for.

The Wolfy race was split into two
factions—the mages and the mercenaries. All of the mages were
short, effeminate and silver-haired. The mercenaries were robust
warriors, broad as an oak and tall as a bear. The only commonalities
between them were their pointed ears and sharp teeth. The mercenaries
could not use magic. In that respect, they were as useless as humans.

“Do
you know their destination?” he asked smoothly.

The creature rolled its hob
shoulders. “No,” he said bluntly. “But there's a mapmaker on
Port Street. He might know. I'll warn ye, though,” he held up a
finger. Volcrian noted the webbed skin. “He's a bit batty.”

A batty mapmaker? Better than
nothing. Volcrian nodded thoughtfully.

“Is
that all?” Malcolm asked, a hint of relief in his voice.

“I
have need of a ship,” Volcrian murmured, his voice ponderous,
distracted by this new information. What was the assassin up to now?
Fleeing overseas? “And a crew.”

The fish-seller grunted, almost a
laugh. “You want my ship? Then I'll truly be ruined! Can't fish
without a ship-”

“That
is none of my concern,” Volcrian bit out. He refocused on Malcolm,
glaring. Then he took a threatening step forward. “I am hunting a
deadly assassin and time is of the essence. If you will not give me
your ship... then I will take it.”

The man croaked to himself,
recoiling from the mage. His white eyes turned narrow. “And what
are you going to do, Wolfy?” he hissed. “Kill me? Death would be
welcomed.”

“Oh,”
Volcrian murmured. “Killing you is not on my agenda.” He spread
his arms in a magnanimous gesture. “Why don't I lift this spell?”

The man's eyes widened, becoming
perfectly round moons. “Y-you can do that?” he murmured, his
voice like paper.

“Of
course,” Volcrian smiled thinly.

“Just...
j-just a moment,” the man said, his voice quivering. He limped into
the depths of the store, vanishing in the maze of fish barrels.
Volcrian's pointed ears twitched. He heard the sound of rummaging,
the slide of a desk drawer.

When Malcolm returned, he held an
oily scrap of paper in hand. “The title of the boat,” he said.
“'Tis an old one, but sturdy. The crew will fall into line if you
can promise them coin.”

“Oh,”
Volcrian murmured, “I'll promise them something....”

Malcolm didn't seem to hear. He
thrust the paper into Volcrian's hand. The mage took it, grimacing at
the creature's wet grip. “Well?” Malcolm stuttered.

“Right,”
Volcrian smiled. It was a cold look. Then he turned and walked
towards the door.

Malcolm began to follow him, then
stopped. “Where are you going?” he demanded. “You promised to
lift the spell!”

Then he shut the door. He strode
onto the docks, pausing next to the ocean. He listened to the gentle
lap of the waves against the wooden posts. Behind him, he heard
muffled screams from inside the store—only audible to his sensitive
ears.

There was no way to reverse a
bloodspell. But he could make the man's suffering shorter. Perhaps
end it completely. It's not as though he had lied. He wasn't killing
the fish-seller—technically, his servant was doing it. And death
would lift the curse.

He lingered on the thought of the
priestess. He had killed her only a few weeks ago, then raised the
corpse. According to the spell he had used, she shouldn't be able to
remember her old identity. And yet she maintained some semblance of
will... part of one, at least. It wasn't supposed to be that way. She
hadn't been able to disobey him yet. Just argue.

Perhaps his magic wasn't as
perfect as he had thought. Maybe he had made a mistake, a flaw in the
timing, in the amount of blood he had used.

No,
he thought. He had read the spell in his great-grandfather's journal,
over and over again, careful to follow each step.

He thought back to when she had
first greeted him on the doorsteps of the Temple, her proud nature
and hard brown eyes. She hadn't mentioned her previous life of
servitude to the Wind Goddess. Perhaps those Winds still protected
her, retaining some sense of the woman she had been.

He didn't care to dwell on it. As
long as she fulfilled her purpose, he could handle a bit of
complaining.

Chapter 2

Sora leaned over a bucket and
tried to puke. She heaved several times, but her stomach was empty.

A week on the ocean, and she still
hadn't adjusted to the constant roll of the waves. Since leaving the
port city of Delbar, she had puked almost every morning and twice in
the afternoon. It was a wonder she hadn't died of malnutrition. She
had eaten nothing but oranges for the last three days, the only food
that didn't upset her stomach. She had tried everything to cure the
sickness, from mint leaves and lavender to a bottle of wine. Nothing
helped.

Sora
sat back on her bed, closing her eyes, trying to distract herself
from the nausea. Thinking of her quest only made it worse. A plague
was sweeping over the mainland, brought on by the bloodmage,
Volcrian. Crops were rotting, people dying in the streets. As it
turned out, she was the only one who could stop it. Ironic,
that.

Especially considering that a year
ago, she had been no more than a Noble Lady, dreading her birthday
party and the marriage to come.

The plague was partly her own
fault. Volcrian hadn't intended his spells to grow out of control. He
had summoned three wraiths from the underworld, but they had brought
a dark power with them. The residue of the Dark God, released back
into the land. The only way to stop the plague was to kill Volcrian
and return the Dark God's weapons to their rightful place—wherever
that may be. The first half was easy enough. Kill the mage, stop the
plague.

I
wouldn't be in this situation if it weren't for Crash,
she thought bitterly. The assassin had kidnapped her after
discovering her Cat's Eye necklace, an ancient device from the War of
the Races.

Sora grimaced and forced herself to
stand up. I
need some fresh air, she
told herself firmly. She walked out of her cabin, a small room barely
large enough for her bed, and into the ship's hold. A long, salt-worn
hallway stretched in either direction. She chose the stern.

Halfway down the hall, a group of
Dracians lingered in the doorway of another cabin. They were short
men, only a few inches taller than herself, with bright coppery hair
and eyes like the ocean waves, a mix of green and blue. They
snickered when she passed. Sora tried to ignore them. They had all
sorts of names for her now: Upchuck, Oatmeal and her personal
favorite, Spew.

Good-for-nothing
clowns,
Sora thought. The Dracians were the most obnoxious race she had met
so far. If they weren't teasing her in the hallways, they were
cat-calling to her on deck or dumping seaweed on her head.

One day, when this was all over, she
would get back at them. Somehow.

Sora climbed up the short stairs
to the deck. The topsail flapped above her in a strong breeze. It was
still overcast, the clouds roiling about like a frothing stew. They
hadn't seen a day of sun since leaving Delbar. The Dracians had
warned that queer storms hovered over the Lost Isles, magic that
lingered from the War of the Races. It astounded her that the storms
had lasted so long. The War of the Races was a legend to most on the
mainland, an ancient history all but forgotten, having taken place
countless centuries ago.

She shivered against the cold
wind. A few drops of rain struck her nose. Another storm was brewing,
a few minutes away from breaking loose. Perhaps this hadn't been such
a good idea, but there were only so many places one could go on a
ship, even a three-masted seafaring vessel.

“Sora,”
she heard a voice call.

She looked up, surprised to see
Burn approaching her. The Wolfy towered over her by almost two feet.
He usually wore a giant greatsword strapped to his back, but today he
was dressed in a linen shirt and snug breeches. His gold eyes met
hers and he grinned, two fangs pushing against his lower lip.

“How
are you?” he asked, pausing next to her.

“Oh,
same old,” she muttered, and grimaced as another wave swelled
beneath the ship.

“You
look pale,” he observed. “Still haven't found your sea legs?”

“I'm
beginning to think I don't have any,” Sora replied. Then she
glanced around. “Where is everyone?” Usually the Dracians were
all over the ship, clearing off the decks or manning the rigging.

“Jacques
called us all to the captain's quarters. I believe he wants to
discuss our course,” Burn said.

Sora sighed. The waves were worse
downstairs, where she could hear the creaking of the timbers, the
various rocks and debris that struck the thick wood. It made her
shudder. She wasn't sure how reliable this vessel was. She felt
terribly concerned about the storms, as though a thin sheet of paper
stood between her and drowning.

Another thought occurred to her. A
bit of anxiety cramped her stomach. “Will Crash be there?” she
asked slowly.

“Of
course,” Burn replied, a small frown on his face.

She took his arm anyway. “Right,”
she said. She didn't treasure the thought of seeing the assassin. She
had avoided him since the beginning of the voyage, which was truly
saying something, given the size of the ship. “Let's go.”

* * *

Burn and Sora entered the room just
as Jacques opened his mouth to speak.

Jacques, the self-proclaimed
Captain of the ship, wore in a flamboyant blue coat that was somewhat
oversized. He had found it in the real captain's cabin, tossed over a
chair. Although they had commandeered the ship, he had taken to
wearing it. Sora had thought a few times of telling him how silly it
looked, but she got the impression that he already knew. And he
didn't seem to care.

“Ah,
and we are joined by the last two members of our merry crew,”
Jacques said. “Sora, I saved a seat just for you. Try not to puke.”

Sora glared at him as a round of
laughter moved around the room. Then she saw the chair he offered and
glared even harder. It was directly next to Crash.

The brooding assassin stared
stoically at the wall. She was glad when he didn't meet her eyes. A
week ago, he had fought off a Kraken on the docks, saving her life
once again. The sea dragon's bite had carried venom, and from what
she had heard, the assassin was still recovering. Not that she cared.
He had awakened in a thankless mood and she had stormed off, tired of
his sarcasm.

Now
that she thought back, she couldn't quite remember why she had been
so angry, but she held on to the grudge anyway. It's
about principle,
she told herself. He should apologize. She had sat by his side all
through the night, cleaning the wound, nursing him back from the
brink of death. The least he could do was thank her.

She glanced sideways at him,
taking in his black hair. It clung to his forehead, dampened by
sweat. His face was slightly pale, his lips tight. His green eyes
stayed focused on the same spot on the wall. It occurred to her,
suddenly, that he might be seasick too.

Burn took his place next to her,
leaning against another roll of the ship. He nodded for Jacques to
continue.

The bright-eyed Dracian turned
back to the room. “As I was saying,” he continued. “Our ship
has sailed a little off course. These storms are growing difficult to
navigate.”

There was a murmur of concern from
the crew.

"I propose we set a new course,
try to find a way around the storms.” Jacques began pacing, walking
up and down the front of the room. It was a broad cabin, doubling as
a game room when it wasn't used for meetings. The tables were nailed
to the floor, as were the chairs, given the motion of the ship. Just
watching him made Sora dizzy. How could he maintain such perfect
balance as the ship rocked and swayed? "This is why we have
called all of you together, so we can take a vote on the best way to
go. Tristan, will you do the honors and explain our first choice?"

The Dracian stepped aside and a
younger specimen took his place. Tristan winked at Sora, though it
was lost on her. She looked down, swallowing hard, trying not to
retch. The younger Dracian had been vying for her attention since
they had first met. A
bottle of hormones, that one,
she thought blearily. He had brought her soup for a while until she
had vomited on his shoes.

Tristan turned to face the crew.
He droned on while Sora listened to the storm outside. The clouds had
amassed thicker and thicker; it looked like night outside the
porthole window, the ocean turned murky gray.

A flash of lightning split the
sky. She heard a distant rumble. A shudder pass through her body.
This was a new development. It might have rained since leaving the
docks, but this storm looked far worse than the others, titanic
clouds roiling above them.

A few more flashes of lightning
passed. Sora tried to listen to what Tristan was staying. Something
about a coral reef. No one seemed worried about the storm.

No one except Crash, perhaps—who
was trying to hide his seasickness. Sora stole a couple quick glances
at him, hoping he would puke all over the cabin floor. A smirk
touched her lips. Looks
like he's finally getting what he deserves,
she thought smugly. Then the ship rolled and she keeled over,
dry-heaving.

Tristan glanced at her, then
continued speaking. She could hear the Dracians mutter in the back of
the room, giggling. Probably taking bets on whether or not she would
vomit.

There was another, louder boom, and
the ship tossed more violently, tilting to one side. The crew fell
silent. Everyone listened to the storm, the thrum of heavy raindrops
on the deck above. Sora tried to see outside the window, but the sky
was darkening quickly, obscuring the vicious ocean.

A crew member rushed into the
room, taking everyone by surprise, a wild look in his eyes. "Hit
the deck!" he yelled.

He didn't have time to slam the door.
The ship suddenly dipped down, and Sora stared out the window in
horror. A solid wall of water met her eyes, blocking out the clouds.
The wave was huge, far higher than their masts....

It
felt like an avalanche hit them. Sora wasn't sure what happened. One
moment she was sitting in her chair, then the room was backwards. The
floor became the wall, the walls became the ceiling. She crashed to
the ground, rolling downwards as the entire ship tipped—and kept
tipping. A loud, terrible crack!
split the air as the masts snapped.

The lanterns flickered out. The
room filled with scattered cries and screams. Darkness enveloped her
and Sora slammed against a table. A body crushed into her from
behind, knocking the wind from her lungs. Her mind whirled in panic.

Then the windows shattered inward.

The table blocked her from the
glass, but not from the flood of water. She was struck by an icy
wave. The ocean greedily forced itself into the room, clawing over
the floor, consuming every inch of space. It gushed through the
broken windows and doorway. Before she knew it, she was up to her
waist in freezing black saltwater. It was cold enough to constrict
her lungs.

There
was no time to think. Sora shoved the body from on top of her and
struggled toward the door. More bodies bumped into her, panicked
members of the crew. Burn,
she
thought.
Laina. Crash....
Where were her companions?

She was pushed back by the force
of the next wave. The ship rose again, then plummeted downward,
rolling and spinning. She sucked in a desperate breath, then the
water slammed her up against the wall. The room was fully submerged.
They were sinking.

Sora forced her eyes open and
almost gasped—the unconscious form of a Dracian floated in front of
her, pale white again the dark water. watched in sick fascination as
the unconscious form drifted away. Pieces of furniture bumped into
her arms. It was as though they had already hit the bottom of the
ocean, as though hundreds of years had passed and she was looking at
the wreckage of a long lost ship.

I
have to get out of here,
she thought.

Strangely, it was less violent
underwater. The waves tugged and pulled, but nowhere near as
forcefully as the surface. She kept her eyes open and noted the other
crew members fleeing the room. Some went out the door—mainly the
Dracians, who were powerful swimmers. She didn't think she had the
oxygen to last that long, nor the strength. It was horribly,
paralyzingly cold.

Suddenly, a figure shot past her and
she recognized Joan. The female Dracian swam smoothly through the
water, as elegant as a seal. Sora's eyes widened. As she watched, the
woman took on her Dracian form, the true appearance of her race. Her
skin rippled and gleamed. A layer of scales emerged, silvery-blue in
color. Her feet and hands elongated, webs spreading between the
digits. Joan's eyes flattened and darkened until they were two ovular
black disks. The only thing remaining of her old self was her thick
mane of red hair.

Each of the Dracians were born
with a different elemental power. It defined their magic. Some took
to fire, some to air. Joan, it seemed, had taken to water.

The female Dracian swam agilely
upward, then slipped out one of the broken windows. Grasping the
idea, Sora started to move with painfully slow strokes towards the
shattered opening.

She had always thought of herself as
a strong swimmer, but the tug and pull of the ocean made her
movements awkward and clumsy. It was her first time swimming in salt
water. Her eyes were beginning to burn.

I'm
going to drown,
she thought, her lungs aching. No, she had to get out! On
inspiration, Sora swam towards the wall and used it to launch herself
at the window. Thankfully, it worked. She hooked her fingers on the
sharp glass and pull herself through. The cuts stung, but she could
hardly feel them. She was too focused on escaping.

Sora propelled herself into the dark,
open water beyond the ship and fought her way to the surface. It
seemed an impossible distance, but she kept swimming. She grabbed
onto floating debris from the deck, barrels and shards of the masts,
using the wood to propel herself upward.

Finally, right when she thought
she would pass out, her head exploded above the water. She had only
enough time for one short, desperate breath before a wave crashed
over her head. She was sent spiraling down, but was caught in the
force of a second wave and shot to the surface again. The ocean
tossed her into the air before dropping her back into the water.

Sora found herself on the surface
for a short moment, her hair plastered on her face, the rain pounding
on her head. She felt like a small ant trapped in a river. It was
useless to fight against the waves.

Half conscious, all Sora concentrated
on was getting air and not swallowing any more water. Now she was too
numb to feel the rain, or even the freezing ocean that surrounded
her. Basic instincts took over. Her world became very small—a wild
mass of dark, swirling water and moments of blessed air. It was a
battle against the sea, and she only hoped that the Sea Goddess would
show her mercy.

The waves suddenly seemed to calm.
She drifted upon the top of the ocean, barely keeping her head above
water. Although the rain and waves still lashed around her, no sound
met her ears. She turned and saw a large, dark object plummeting
towards her on a fifteen foot swell. It looked like a door broken off
its hinges....